Until ploughed-in, stubble provides rooks with ample meals of spilt grain. They arrive in a ragged, cawing flock and settle scattered untidily across the field. The first arrivals are joined by a trickle of latecomers, while others leave when replete. The rooks work as individuals, searching a small area intently and occasionally flying a few yards to explore a new patch. There is not the regimented, close-formation sweeping across the field that one sees with flocks of woodpigeons and geese. Occasionally one rook will flap over to a neighbour, who hops out of the way. This appears to be a dominant bird avariciously displacing a subordinate who has found some rich picking. At other times, the two birds settle side by side and it becomes evident that this is a pair. There is a snatch of courtship display and one may solicit, and receive, food from the other. They fly off together and sometimes indulge in a breathtaking display of aerobatics known as 'shooting': dipping and weaving and hurtling down in twisting, headlong dives. The scene serves as a reminder that for some, if not most, birds, a new cycle of courtship and breeding starts very soon after the last has finished. One thing puzzles me, however. When a rook is approached by another, how does it know how to react? One rook looks the same as the next to me. They must be able to recognise minute clues in their appearance and behaviour that, to them, are as plain as the nose on the end of your face.
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